


Wrung Dry

by thisprettywren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bondage, Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Situational Humiliation, Watersports, domJohn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisprettywren/pseuds/thisprettywren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tests Sherlock's limits. The resultant battle of wills gets a bit messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrung Dry

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/20063.html?thread=120443999#t120443999) over at the meme, and the "humiliation (situational)" square on [my bingo card](http://thisprettywren.dreamwidth.org/44827.html).
> 
> Beta credit goes to misanthropyray, but I'm afraid I can't really blame her for this one.

Of course it’s uncomfortable, but that isn’t the part that matters.

The part that matters is that John’s hands are on him. John is touching him, his blunt fingertips tracing a path up and down Sherlock’s chest, sliding below the shelf of Sherlock’s ribcage to tease across skin pulled taut by the way his arms are stretched overhead. John's fingers; John's hands. _John_.

Sherlock closes his eyes, giving his mind over to the sensation as thoroughly as he has given his body.

"Don't." The command is tight with the expectation of instant obedience, and Sherlock doesn't disappoint.

He forces his eyes back open to see John standing in front of him, staring impassively down at Sherlock kneeling on the floor. His eyes are flinty, no colour that Sherlock knows how to name. 

"Do you understand," John says, the words slow and deliberate. It is in no way a question, and Sherlock can only nod, again and again, unable to look away from the hard lines of John's face, the deliberate set of his mouth. The wall at his back is cool; that, he tells himself, must be the source of the shiver that makes its way down his spine.

John's eyes flick down to where Sherlock's cock is jutting into the air between his spread thighs, insistent and utterly ignored. And _yes_ , Sherlock wants John's attention there—he's achingly hard, has been ever since John twisted Sherlock's arm up behind his back and growled _on the floor_ , his breath hot against the back of Sherlock's neck—but when the drop of John's eyes releases Sherlock from its hold, that isn't what draws Sherlock's attention. Instead, his gaze glides upward along the taut bowline of his own arm. He needs to see it again, needs the visual confirmation of just how thoroughly John has him pinioned, and there: thick bands of leather, dark against his pale skin, wrapped snug around the narrow columns of Sherlock's wrists. They're affixed to a bar that holds them spread just a little wider than his shoulders, suspended high enough that Sherlock is obliged to straighten his elbows.

Sherlock pulls down with as much force as he can muster, straining through the extension of his shoulders, just to feel the utter futility of the effort, the unforgiving rigidity of the bar and the chains holding it aloft.

John has put him here, and here Sherlock will remain until John says otherwise.

John leans forward to set his hands hard against Sherlock's shoulders and shoves, forcing Sherlock's back hard against the wall behind him, the force of it wrenching Sherlock's shoulders just enough that his exhale shatters around John's name in his mouth. 

John's grin is all teeth. He shifts forward, dropping his knees between Sherlock’s legs and using them for the leverage necessary to push Sherlock's thighs apart. He continues to inch forward, applying steady pressure until Sherlock's legs are splayed wide. Then John presses them further, further, until Sherlock's legs are trembling and his hips aching with the strain. 

The fabric of John's trousers chafes slightly against the sensitive skin on the insides of Sherlock's thighs. Christ, the man hasn't even undressed.

Sherlock's gaze drops down to his own body, the pale skin fully on display, broken only by the harsh lines of the straps John has buckled around his limbs. Between his spread thighs, Sherlock's cock is dark with trapped blood, jutting forward obscenely. Vulnerable and exposed. The sight of it sends a hot flush of shame racing beneath his skin, more heat gathering at the base of his spine.

Christ, but Sherlock _wants_.

He twitches his hips forward in entreaty, but John is all infinite patience and hard, compact muscle. Immovable. 

Sherlock gets precisely nowhere.

"Gorgeous," John murmurs. "Gorgeous, and _mine_." His hands sweep over Sherlock's shoulders, following the lines of Sherlock's collarbones, then down to brush over Sherlock's chest with strokes that are both maddeningly light and very nearly overwhelming. "Whatever am I going to do with you?" Sherlock can't help the way the muscles of his abdomen tighten and shift as John's fingertips dance across them.

John brings his hands down to cup the abrupt ridges of Sherlock's hips. The heat of John’s palms is unbearable. Sherlock shifts his legs slightly, but the leather belts binding his calves to his thighs remain unyielding.

“You have a safeword,” John whispers. Sherlock presses his lips together and John growls, actually growls, the blunt edges of his fingernails digging into the thin layer of Sherlock’s skin. It doesn’t even hurt, really, but Sherlock squirms anyway, just to feel himself _unable to move_. “Say it.”

Sherlock swallows. He hates this part. “Norbury,” he mutters, for what he’s absolutely certain will be the last time that day.

“Again. Louder.”

“Norbury.” Wrong again already. This time he spits the word out from between gritted teeth, and John’s mouth twists into a smile.

“When it gets to be too much,” John says, slowly, weighing the words deliberately on his tongue, “you will use it. Until then, not a word.”

 _When_. Sherlock sucks in a harsh breath and tips his head back to rest against the wall behind him, not taking his eyes from John’s face.

John’s hand leaves Sherlock’s right hip and slides lower, lower, until there are blunt nails scratching at the sensitive skin on the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. Up, down, up, down, from hip to the first wide leather belt and back again, John eases Sherlock’s skin through indifference to irritation to _fire_. Jesus, his skin is on fire, just from the brush of John’s fingertips, the light scratch of his nails.

Sherlock's eyes slip closed, his head falling forward on his neck.

John’s palm comes down hard against the reddened flesh and Sherlock's head jerks back up at the shock of it. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard to stifle the sound that tries to force its way from his throat. When he blinks his eyes open again John is watching him, face stony and impassive apart from the glint of amusement in his eye.

Sherlock is still struggling to catch his breath when John’s right hand closes abruptly around his erection, straining into the space between their two bodies. 

A small, rational part of Sherlock's mind insists that he hold himself back, that John couldn't possibly intend to— to finish him off, like this, here, after everything. Not when this is a punishment; not when Sherlock's body is already beginning to protest the position in which John has placed him.

Still. As John’s hand begins to move faster and John’s lips—hot, wet—make contact with the skin above the pulse point in Sherlock’s throat, it’s just— Sherlock falls into the sensation and forgets, just for a moment. He forgets. He aches. _Please_.

Then John's touch disappears and Sherlock is left wanting, fighting to control his breath, hoping desperately that he didn't just make that sound out loud.

John is still kneeling in front of him, his expression one of complete composure, apparently completely unaffected while Sherlock is—is, hell—while Sherlock is falling to pieces. He can feel the throb of his own pulse in his throat, in his wrists, along the aching length of his cock. He stares down at it, across the exposed expanse of his own chest, the flush extending downward from his throat. 

John's fingers come up to pinch hard at one nipple. The pain gives Sherlock the excuse he needs to writhe, swallowing a moan and tugging down at his wrists, prevented even from twisting away.

"Hold still," John commands. It's completely unnecessary and, therefore, thoroughly indulgent. The fire in Sherlock's spine flares anew. _John_. Sherlock tips his head forward, lips parting in hope of enticing John to kiss him. 

John just curls the corner of his mouth up into a smile and shakes his head, once.

Then John's hand is back on his cock, moving with agonising slowness. Sherlock feels owned, pinned by the weight of his own body stretched between the cuffs on his wrists and the leather straps forcing him into a kneeling position. His ribcage shudders outward, struggling to expand with each breathless inhale.

Sherlock can feel the stirrings of an orgasm just beginning to gather at the base of his spine, a dark accumulation of pressure drawing up and up and up. He arches into it, straining forward, desperate. For touch; for John's touch, more of it than this one point of contact; for John.

John's tongue comes out to touch his lip, just the tip, soft and pink and wet. Again. _Christ_. Sherlock's mouth falls open around a harsh, rasping breath, John's earlier admonishment forgotten. He wants John's tongue on him, in him. He aches with the need of it. The cuffs bite into his wrists as he strains against them, desperate for the feel of John's skin under his hands. He's close; he's so close, John's hand on his cock and his knees against the insides of Sherlock's thighs, hard points of warmth beneath the thin barrier of his trousers. So close, so much, and Sherlock needs _more_. Please, fuck, _please_ —

John's hand drops away from Sherlock's overheated skin.

Sherlock bites back a shout of frustration, unable to stop his hips from twitching in search of friction that isn't there. 

John brings his mouth to Sherlock's throat to nip and suck at the sensitive skin at the join of neck and shoulder, beneath his ear. Sherlock tips his head back; John's hair tickles the underside of his chin. And this was what he wanted, just a moment ago, but it's not enough. (Never enough. _John._ )

John's teeth scrape along the raised line of Sherlock's tendon, then close on the tender skin once, twice. An unbearable pause—

—then for a third time, hard enough to bruise.

Fuck. _Fuck._

Sherlock's fingers curl and uncurl, useless, suspended in the air; he wants to touch almost as much as he wants to be touched. His own breath is loud in his ear, harsh and ragged, counterpoint to John's even composure. 

John's left hand comes up to fist in Sherlock's hair, pinning his head hard against the surface of the wall. Then John tugs hard, forcing Sherlock to look up at his own hands, secured to the rigid bar, the lengths of chain running from each end up to attachment points several feet above the highest point Sherlock can reach while trapped on his knees.

His message is clear enough: _See? See what I can do to you, for you?_

"You're sure you don't want to safeword?" John whispers, his lips so close to Sherlock's throat that he can feel their movements against the skin, feel the warm wet puff of John's breath.

Sherlock swallows hard and manages to shake his head. No; no, whatever John is about to do to him, he knows he can take it.

John releases Sherlock's hair and sets his palm flat against the wall to push himself to standing. He turns and walks out of Sherlock's line of sight; when he returns, he's holding— 

Oh, bloody fucking Christ.

He's holding the hood that he had purchased for Sherlock a few weeks earlier. "For when it all gets to be too much," John had said with a knowing smile, and Sherlock had simply taken it, staring down at the black leather in fascination. There was a line of lacing up the back to allow for total blackout, but beyond that it wasn't even particularly form-fitting. Even so, the thought of having his head—his senses—so enclosed sends a thrill of excited fear skittering along his spine. Sherlock had immediately tucked it away in the back of a drawer; how did John even find it?

Sherlock's swallows around nothing. His mouth is unaccountably dry.

John just folds his arms in front of his chest, hood clutched in one hand, and stares down at him.

Sherlock can do nothing but stare back up, feeling trapped and thoroughly exposed by the weight of John's regard. He's an insect pinned beneath glass; the glint in John's eye is the blade poised to slice him open.

"All right," John says, as though granting some request Sherlock isn't even aware of having made.

Then the hood comes down over Sherlock's head, encasing him in darkness. The continuous jerking motion as John adjusts the laces is both overwhelming and completely disorientating, but John's hands are warm and sure as he secures the fastenings around Sherlock's throat, even muted as they are through the heavy material. When the final buckle is in place John's hand comes down on the top of Sherlock's head, a single, soothing pet along the top of his head. The touch says _good_ ; it says _stay_.

Then— nothing. 

Sherlock strains his ears, listening for some sign of where John is, what he's doing. He tells himself that John must be there, just out of reach on the other side of the darkness, watching him. He must.

Sherlock waits.

Nothing.

Sherlock tries to hold himself still, but it's harder than it should be. The leather of the hood shifts gently against his face with each inhale, not impeding his breathing so much as forcing him to be aware of the mechanics of it. The muscles of his neck and shoulders are tight with the strain of the spread position of his arms, and his knees are already beginning to ache from the enforced kneel.

Sherlock's chest is tight with anticipation, with the expectation of a touch that he knows must be coming. He focuses on his breathing, on the twin challenge of inhaling and exhaling through the hood and the tightness in his chest.

It feels like a very long time later that the realisation finally sinks in: Sherlock is alone.

 

****

 

Of course it’s uncomfortable, but it’s nothing he can’t handle.

Sherlock shifts restlessly, curling his toes under to take some of his weight on the balls of his feet. He longs to straighten his legs, but the straps binding his calves to his thighs have little enough give that the most he can do is contract his muscles in an effort to ease some of the cramping that has already begun to set in. His knees ache, both with the position and the friction of his skin against the the fibres of the carpet.

 _His_ carpet, Sherlock reminds himself; he's in his own bedroom, though the knowledge takes on an abstract quality, cut off from his surroundings as he is by the hood still in place over his head.

Sherlock doesn't know how long it's been since John left him here. Hours, possibly. A lifetime. It's possible that his muscles have always ached in this way, that they will always ache in this way. The pain is like the echo of John's touch on Sherlock's body, warped and twisted now that John himself is no longer there. Light feels like a dim, distant memory. 

The absence of sight bothers Sherlock more than he would have anticipated. (Or, perhaps: precisely as he anticipated. He accepted the hood, after all. He wanted this. Does he want this?) The enclosing darkness is utterly disorientating, leaving him not just helpless but resourceless.

Sherlock's toes begin to tingle and he flexes his ankles again, bringing the tops of his feet back down onto the ground. The shift stretches his arms just that little bit further overhead, the pain in his muscles flaring again. He can feel the heat of his blood beneath his skin, forcing its way through constricted capillaries, each pulse like a whisper. _John. John. John._

Of course, if he could straighten his legs he could stand, and then he'd be out of this in an instant. Sherlock closes his eyes against the black dark behind the hood, his mind's eye conjuring the image of the chain running up to the attachment points on the wall. They're not even secured properly, just threaded through the hooks. The knowledge taunts him. It's too far to reach; he knows it's too far. Even if he could raise himself high enough to reach the hooks, the weight of his own body would make it impossible to work the chains free. The rigid bar holds his arms widely spread enough that Sherlock—even if he could straighten his legs; even if the bloody hood weren't in the way—will never be able to get his mouth to his wrists to make a go at undoing the cuffs with his teeth.

He twines his fingers in the cool metal of the chain, trying to pull himself up against gravity and the weight of his own body, even though he knows it's useless. 

It's not as though he hasn't tried.

When his muscles begin to quiver with the effort Sherlock releases the chain and reaches up through his shoulder, extending his spine from hips to ribs, straining with his fingertips. It’s a ridiculous gesture, humiliatingly futile. He can't help it.

Eventually he gives up—just as he'd known he would; just as he did all the times before—and lets himself lean into the wall, exhausted, his head lolling against his upper arm. He's beginning to feel dizzy with the effort, his circulation struggling against the elevated position of his arms. He's going to begin breathing heavily soon, if he isn't careful, and that's— no. Better to give in now, before it gets to that point.

The air holes in the hood allow plenty of air to get through but only if he goes slowly, deliberately; only if he restricts his breathing to his nose.

Even understanding the logic of it isn't enough to make it easy. Sherlock has to grit his teeth and steady his breathing by force of will. 

In the time that he's been here—how long has it been? It feels like an eternity, trapped alone in his private darkness— the leather of the hood has become clammy and heated with his exhalations. It clings uncomfortably to the skin of his face, pressing against his nostrils with each inhale. It's inescapable, preventing him from letting his mind drift, forcing his awareness back to his predicament again and again.

The first time he lost his composure, desperate to move, Sherlock had shuddered and jerked down violently on the cuffs until the strain was a red-hot fire extending from biceps to ribcage. He'd collapsed finally, panting, every bit as trapped as he'd been when he started. The heavy material of the hood was pulled against his mouth, trapped there by the force of his inhale, an unwelcome intrusion against his tongue that rapidly grew so damp with saliva and the moisture of his breath that it seemed no air was getting through at all.

— and that thought sent a frisson of fear along his spine, quickening his breathing still more, his pulse hammering in his throat. Surely John wouldn't let him choke?

But John wasn't there. It was just Sherlock and the hood, inescapable, the waves of fear rising higher and higher until Sherlock began to believe he really _would_ choke, choke and suffocate while still pinioned and helpless. The thought left him shuddering and swallowing down a flood of outright panic. Even recalling it now is enough to make his pulse come faster.

There's enough air, he knows there is. His mind is sure of this, even if his body is not.

Where the hell is John?

It's warm under the hood; some of the moisture clogging the air might very well be sweat. Sherlock rubs his forehead against his upper arm as best he can and tips his head back against the wall.

How long does John intend to leave him here? Perhaps he's left the flat, perhaps Sherlock is entirely on his own, perhaps— 

Wrong. _Wrong_. The admonishment is savage and rough, even within the space of Sherlock's mind. He knows where John is. John has been going about his business as though Sherlock doesn't even exist: opening and shutting drawers in the kitchen, pottering around the sitting room. Sherlock is dizzyingly aware that John might be standing in the doorway even now, watching Sherlock struggle against himself. 

The heat of that imagined gaze is like fire under his skin.

Sherlock presses his lips together, swallowing down the urge to call out. John said Sherlock was not to talk unless it was to safeword, and he isn't going to safeword. He doesn't need to. He doesn't.

It's possible, he supposes, that John is waiting for something, though Sherlock can't imagine what that might be. He's finding it difficult to think, the insistent aches in his muscles dragging him back into his body again and again, the cloying material of the hood clinging inescapably to his face. Sherlock knows where he is, of course, but that knowledge keeps slipping away, enclosed as he is in darkness that smells only of thick leather and himself, even his hearing muffled.

Sherlock shifts again as he tries—and fails—to ease the strain on his legs. 

If John wants him here, here he will stay.

(As though he has a choice. He twists his wrists in the cuffs, aching and impossibly, insurmountably distant.)

(Trapped; he's trapped.)

Breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale; better. That's better.

There's a creak that must be John settling into his desk chair. Sherlock's head pivots back and forth, trying to pinpoint the direction of the sound, even though— right. His bedroom. It's not like the layout of the flat has shifted; he's just disorientated by so much time in the dark. 

_Right._

There's a steady, rhythmic tapping that Sherlock identifies as John's fingers on his keyboard. Sherlock leans his head back against the wall and listens, but of course he can glean nothing from the sound itself, except that John is there and not _here_. Except that Sherlock is still alone.

_Tap, tap, tap_

Slowly; John types so bloody _slowly_.

It occurs to Sherlock that he might use the sound to gauge the passage of time. He tips his head forward, letting his wrists take more of his weight for a moment as he strains his ears, trying to use what he can to determine the rhythm of John's words.

And for ( _tap_ ) a while ( _tap_ ), it seems ( _tap_ ) to be ( _tap_ ) working, the ( _tap_ ) sound of John's ( _tap_ ) fingers ( _tap_ ) against the ( _tap_ ) keys oddly ( _tap_ ) steadying. Sherlock ( _tap_ ) loses himself in the ( _tap_ ) rhythm of ( _tap_ ) John's ( _tap_ ) typing, the sound ( _tap_ ) itself oddly ( _tap_ ) grounding, allowing ( _tap_ ) Sherlock to ( _tap_ ) conjure up ( _tap_ ) the ( _tap_ ) mental image of ( _tap_ ) John at ( _tap_ ) his desk, ( _tap_ ) frowning down ( _tap_ ) at the screen ( _tap_ )—

— until, abruptly, the sound becomes too much for Sherlock's constrained senses, shifting from something grounding to something electric, as though each movement of Johns fingers is jolting the very neurons in Sherlock's brain. And it just goes on and on,

( _tap_ )

( _tap_ )

( _tap_ )

inexorable. _Unbearable_. 

_How dare he_ , Sherlock thinks wildly. _How dare he trap me here, leave me here, and just— just go about his business, sit at his laptop as though there's nothing the matter—_

( _tap_ )

( _tap_ )

He doesn't mean to rattle the cuffs, but— he can't help it. He's going to lose his mind. His arms seem to be out of his control, jerking wildly, uselessly, thumping the bar against the wall and rattling the chain.

( _tap_ )

Sherlock is so focused on the sound of John's typing that it's only when it stops that he notices the bright spots of colour bursting behind the darkness of the hood. He shakes his head frantically, trying to shake his head free, but— no, of course it doesn't help. He didn't think it would, but—

Sherlock hears John's chair roll back from his desk.

For a moment hope surges hot and strong in Sherlock's chest. Surely John is coming to check on him, to let him down or at least— at least _touch_ him. 

He forces himself still, struggling to regain control over his breathing.

 _Please,_ John.

Sherlock bites his lip and waits.

Silence.

Silence.

Nothing.

Then the typing resumes again.

( _tap_ )

( _tap_ )

( _tap_ )

Sherlock drops his head back against the wall. Then he does it again, the small bursts of pain flaring in time with the rhythm of John's fingers on the keys.

He waits.

 

****

 

Of course it's uncomfortable. Sherlock is beginning to suspect that's the point.

The cramping in his muscles has long since ceased to exist as distinguishable points of discomfort. In the absence of John's touch—in the absence of any external sensation—it has become something all-encompassing, enfolding him like an embrace. Like _John's_ embrace. 

Gradually, Sherlock stops fighting and simply accepts the waves of sensation washing over him. John wants this, so Sherlock will endure it.

And it's with this acceptance that his arousal returns, the shivers below his skin echoes of the movements of John's fingers across his body, steady and inexorable and claiming. The mere thought is enough he can feel his cock growing hard again, pulsing with a need that is entirely out of his own power to fulfil.

Inside the stifling darkness of the hood, Sherlock's mind begins to drift. He slips in and out of vivid waking dreams in which John is no longer out of reach; in which John has returned to release him, or to touch him; both or neither, as John wishes. 

Sherlock wakes shivering in the darkness, fighting down his body's instinctive panic, knowing all he needs to do is wait. John can't possibly mean to leave him forever, and he's been here so long already….

It is only gradually that he brings himself to acknowledge the new, more insistent pressure building inside of him. Up to this point he's been able to push awareness of the fullness of his bladder to the back of his mind, but he finds himself unable to ignore it any longer. It's already been building for a long time. Hours, possibly; Sherlock's grasp of time has long since slipped away but from the sounds drifting in through the window he supposes it must already be late evening.

The thought makes his pelvic muscles clench involuntarily. Christ, how _long_? How much longer?

Sherlock bites back a groan and eases his weight from one shin to the other and back again, hoping that the motion will do something to quell the inevitable, but— no. 

Sherlock shifts again, swallowing hard. His tongue is desperately dry, thick behind his teeth, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Through the open bedroom door, Sherlock hears the sound of the kitchen tap being turned on, the clang of something metallic against the inside of the sink. Sherlock bites his lip, shifting again. He should be able to identify precisely what John is doing, but now that he's become aware of the increasing pressure in his bladder, it's difficult to think beyond it.

In the kitchen, John flicks the lighter on the hob. He's cooking; dinner? Sherlock's mind races as he tries to work out what John is doing, trying to calculate how much longer he might be left here. Whether he'll be able to stand it. John likes to watch telly while he eats; factor in time for cooking and a half-hour programme—Christ, what if it's an hour? It's— it's Tuesday, he thinks; or maybe Wednesday. What does John like to watch on Tuesday evenings?

Christ. He should know this, he _does_ know this, it's just— he can't _think_.

The uncertainty is unsettling. It's not as though he'd been comfortable before but the insistent ache in his abdomen is intrusive in a way that's almost dizzying, each breath seeming to increase the pressure, the position of his arms already forcing his abdominal muscles into a slight extension that compresses his whole torso.

Sherlock curls his toes under and leans forward through the ache in his shoulders, hoping the slight change in angle might ease the cramping, but— no.

The feeling of fullness is getting scrambled somewhere, twisting inside his mind until it's edging on something like arousal. He's aware that his body is confusing the signals; the pressure against his prostate from the fullness of his bladder is nothing like the pressure of fingers in his arse, except that it _is_ ; except that something about the way the whole experience is wrapped up in John is making him forget the distinction. He's half-hard; he needs to piss; he doesn't know where the one set of sensations ends and the other begins.

Or perhaps it's just that the line itself has become hopelessly muddled, as it so often does when it comes to John.

He flattens the tops of his feet against the carpet again, shifting his weight restlessly from one leg to the other. Back and forth, back and forth, the movement doing nothing but increasing his awareness of the uncomfortable pressure. His breaths become shallower as he tenses his muscles against the sensation, making the hood cling inescapably close around his nose.

Breathe. He needs to _breathe_. He needs to relax. He can wait it out. Surely he can wait it out.

From the kitchen comes the sound of John stirring something in a pot, then the rush of the tap being turned on again. Sherlock sets his forehead hard against the taut muscles of his upper arm and stifles his groan.

Just as Sherlock feared, he hears John settle himself in front of the television. The sound of the programme itself is difficult to distinguish but loud enough to obscure any sounds made by John's movements, leaving Sherlock's thoughts to drift in and out of focus for an interminable time.

It's unfair, it's just _unfair_ that he be so bloody thirsty. Sherlock runs his tongue over his dry lips, tasting sweat and leather. He wants a drink, but that thought makes him think of liquid, of water, and— oh, _fuck_.

Another harsh cramp shivers its way across his pelvic muscles, and this time Sherlock is unable to hold himself steady against the inexorable pressure. He jerks down hard on his arms, trying to stop what he already knows is inevitable. There's a wet flood of heat along the head of his cock as some of the piss escapes. Just a little; he thinks it was only a little.

He clamps down hard on the rest of it with a force that has him seeing stars. 

Bloody fucking actual _fuck_.

Having let just that little bit go, his body is screaming to release the rest of the pressure, but— no. But no, because _no_ , Sherlock is not going to piss himself here on the floor of his own bloody bedroom, is not going to leave a puddle on the carpet for John to find when he finally returns. Sherlock isn't fooling himself, of course John is going to be able to tell that he— what just happened, but… if it's just a _little_ , perhaps he can get out of this with his dignity intact.

Perhaps.

Sherlock's muscles are shaking with the strain of combating the pressure in his bladder. He drops his head against his upper arm and groans, forcing himself to breathe slowly through the hood. Breathe. He just needs to breathe.

It seems to take forever, but eventually the precipice recedes. If he could just take his mind off the pressure, he thinks, he'll be able to hold himself a bit longer.

" _Sherlock_." John's voice is low and quiet, startling close to Sherlock's ear. "You're sure there isn't something you want to say to me?"

The shake of his head is instinctive, more reflex than true denial. No, there's nothing he wants to say, but— 

John's finger drifts along the skin below Sherlock's right clavicle, back and forth, and Sherlock has to fight not to press himself forward into it.

Christ, has John noticed? A wave of heat surges up Sherlock's spine, so quick he's slightly dizzy with it, reeling in the darkness behind the hood. What if John _sees_?

John's finger keeps stroking the skin below Sherlock's collarbone, left to right, right to left. The fabric of his shirt brushes against the bare skin of Sherlock's chest. He doesn't— he's naked. Right. John is still clothed and Sherlock is naked, and he's been— he's been naked for hours. 

Naked, yes; blind and trapped; _John's_. Sherlock can't remember the last time he felt so lost, so outside of his own power.

Sherlock can do nothing, which means John could do anything.

John's other hand alights on the top of Sherlock's thigh. The heat of the touch is immense—Sherlock realises only belatedly how chilled his own flesh has become—and Sherlock can feel the outline of the individual fingers, thumb curled in along the crease of thigh and groin, fingers splayed below the crest of Sherlock's hip. John's weight presses down on Sherlock's thigh as he leans in, so close that Sherlock can feel the movement of his lips through the leather of the hood where it's stretched across his ear.

"Because if there's nothing you want to say to me," John whispers, voice carefully even, "I'm going to keep doing precisely what I want to do to you."

The finger that had been moving back and forth beneath Sherlock's clavicle disappears at the same time John's weight eases from Sherlock's thigh. 

The sinking feeling of abandonment is immediate. Sherlock jerks against the cuffs pinning him in place— _No, please_ —but it's only a moment later that he feels the soft, wet heat of John's mouth against his left nipple. Sherlock swallows a moan and writhes, caught between conflicting sensations. His skin feels oversensitive and wired straight to his cock, already hot and tight against the pressure in his abdomen, and... and _Christ_.

John's mouth doesn't move, but Sherlock feels a sharp pain in his other nipple that must be the pinch of John's fingernails. It doesn't let up, even as John continues to use his mouth to lick and tease, the contrast between sharp pain and soft heat impossible to reconcile. Sherlock shudders through a wave of sensation, biting down hard on his lip to swallow the sound that threatens to slip past his teeth.

John's brings his mouth away from Sherlock's skin, just enough to speak. "Noises are fine," he says, halfway to a laugh, which is _infuriating_. "You've been so patient."

John clearly doesn't have any idea what he's saying, because Sherlock hasn't been patient at all; John left him here and Sherlock waited because he didn't have a choice, but he's desperate and aching. He can feel himself growing hard yet again, his erection hot and full in the darkness in front of him, combining with his need to release the pressure in his bladder, and he just— Christ, he _can't_ , he doesn't—

Even were he permitted to speak, Sherlock doesn't know how he would begin to articulate what he needs.

John's hands are roaming across the skin of Sherlock's chest and stomach, teasing over the lines of his ribs and sweeping down along insides of his thighs. He presses his mouth to the thin skin at the base of Sherlock's neck, below the buckle of the hood, his tongue and lips wet and soft and warm. Sherlock shudders and lets his head fall to the side to expose more of his throat, because _yes_.

Then the tongue disappears, leaving only the hint of John's lips brushing against Sherlock's skin. It takes him longer than it should to realise that John is speaking.

"— arms down now."

John draws back with a rustle of cloth as he presses himself up to standing. Sherlock feels the chain pinning the right side of the bar jerk up—once, twice—and braces himself for the pain of flexing his shoulder after so long in one position. 

Instead, there's a long pause.

"Sherlock," John says at last. His voice is cautious, coming from a place seemingly far above Sherlock's head. "Sherlock, is that— did you—"

_Oh, god._

Sherlock drops his head back against the wall so hard it lands with an audible thump. The mere mention of the fact that he's— that— that he's bloody well _pissed himself_ , fine— is enough to send another jolt of cramping through the muscles of his abdomen. He groans, shifting his weight back and forth between his bound legs in an attempt to ease it. He can feel John watching him; beneath the hood, he knows his cheeks are blazing with shame.

"And you still don't want to use your safeword," John mutters, incredulous. "Bloody great idiot. I ought to just leave you here until you come to your senses."

Sherlock can't help the way he jerks forward at that. The chain rattles—still attached, then—and his shoulders burn as he throws all his weight against it. The noise he just made was absolutely not a whine, but he can't stand it. He's just so _full_ , between the pressure in his abdomen and the ache in his cock, and thought of being left alone again in the stifling darkness is— it's too much.

He shakes his head, frantically.

There's a quick rush of air as John drops back into a crouch in front of him. Sherlock shivers as John begins to run one finger up and down the sensitive underside of his erection, stopping just short of the crown.

"You know, Sherlock," John says, his tone light and conversational, "last night, when you left me stranded in the arse-end of London while you ran off on your own, did you know I didn't have my mobile with me? No, of course you didn't, because it didn't occur to you to check." 

John's finger doesn't stop moving, spreading the fluid already leaking from the head of Sherlock's cock along the shaft, teasing at skin that already feels too tight and too hot. Sherlock rolls his head on his neck, curls and uncurls his fingers, because god, he needs more but it's already too much, too full, he can't bear it, he—

"You think you have everything under control," John continues, his voice utterly casual, "but what I need you to understand, Sherlock, is that that isn't always the case. What you're doing right now is stubborn bloody-mindedness, plain and simple." The touch disappears and Sherlock's hips jerk forward, the muscles in his thighs flexing. "But, because you've been so patient today, I'm going to give you a choice. Are you listening?"

Sherlock nods, dazed, licking his dry lips.

"This situation you're in right now? Is horribly unhealthy. As your doctor, I really cannot allow it to continue." John's fingertips begin to trail absently along the lower part of Sherlock's abdomen, drifting down to the sensitive skin on the inside of his hip, and Sherlock shudders through another wave of cramping. "I imagine you're about ready to, ah, resolve the issue, as well. So either I'll stay and help you with that, in which case we'll do things on my terms, or I can leave to let you sort it out in your own time." The touch disappears. "Or, of course, you could always safeword. It's up to you. Tell me what you want."

It takes Sherlock a moment to gather the wherewithal to shape his mouth around the word. "Stay," he manages, voice raspy and muffled by the leather hood. "Please, John, I—"

"Shh," John admonishes with a quick slap to the inside of Sherlock's right thigh that makes him jerk back in surprise. "That's enough."

John stands again and Sherlock is mildly surprised to feel him unbuckling the cuff on Sherlock's left wrist. John's hand feels very warm against Sherlock's as he rubs some of the circulation back into his fingers. Sherlock groans and has to fight not to twist away when John eases his arm back down toward the floor. "I'm going to help you lie down in a minute," John explains as he starts on the right cuff, "and when I do, you're to keep your palms flat on the floor at all times. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods. John repeats his treatment on Sherlock's right hand. It's as though his arms are made of lead, two impossible weights dragging down from his shoulders.

John shifts him away from the wall and helps him lie down, his bound legs splayed out to the side. The movement eases some of the terrible ache in his abdomen, just a bit. Just enough.

John settles between Sherlock's legs and begins to brush the back of his fingernail along the sensitive underside of Sherlock's cock, root to tip. As with every time he's touched Sherlock, it's both sparing and carefully controlled. It makes Sherlock want to thrash and shout, force John to hold him down, just to get more of John's skin against his own.

"Palms flat," John commands, and— yes, right. Sherlock presses his hands as hard as he can against the floor, aware of the slight, rough catch of the carpet fibres against his skin.

"Did you know," John says conversationally, "that it's impossible for a man to urinate while fully erect?" The fingers of his right hand alight on Sherlock's abdomen, pressing lightly over his bladder, and— _Jesus fucking Christ_.

"Not very comfortable, is it?" John's voice is full of mock concern. It's all Sherlock can do to keep from squirming against the floor. "Well. There are, of course, ways to make it _less_ comfortable." The finger leaves Sherlock's cock and trails lower until it's just brushing against Sherlock's entrance, the touch sending a shiver along Sherlock's skin that triggers another muscle cramp. He can't; he wants— 

_Please._

"I wonder which release you want more? What has you the most desperate? No, don't tell me," John admonishes, "it doesn't make a bit of difference. Not up to you, remember?"

Sherlock groans and nods, the laces of the hood catching against the nap of the carpet.

"It is, however, possible for a man to urinate while partially aroused. Possible but extremely messy. I've seen men piss all over themselves, in that state. Is that what you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shakes his head, but without much force. Fuck, he doesn't _know_. He just— he's too full, aching, he needs. _John_.

"You are absolutely not to come. You may tell me if you think you're getting too close, but keep in mind that when you do, I'll stop touching you, which means you'll have to hold your piss in on your own. I'm not going to be pleased if you make a mess of yourself before I say. If you don't think you can hold it any more, tell me and I'll start touching you again. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nods because he doesn't know what else to do, pressing his hands as hard against the floor as his sore shoulders will allow. Christ, his mouth is dry.

John wraps his hand around Sherlock's erection and begins to stroke with agonising slowness, wrenching a groan out of Sherlock's mouth that feels like it started somewhere below his ribs. 

"Of course," John says, not ceasing the motions of his hand. "You _are_ going to end up pissing yourself, just like you're going to end up coming all over your stomach. That's what all this it's-just-transport business gets you in the end. You can't fight your own body, you know. You always lose."

Sherlock's pulse is so loud in his ears John's words seem muffled, as though coming to him from a great distance. He knows he needs to get his breathing under control, but he can't seem to stop it from billowing in and out of his nose in great huffs that make the hood feel even closer, more inescapable against his skull. He curls and uncurls his toes, trying to find some way to process the sensation of John's hand on his skin. _Christ_. He's been— it's almost— he's—

"Stop," he gasps out, eyes wide. His voice is rough and muffled behind the leather of the hood, and John's hand immediately releases him.

Sherlock struggles to steady his breathing while John strokes his thigh. There are bright spots of colour dancing in the darkness before his eyes. After a time, he feels less as though he's going to either choke or pass out, leaving him free to focus on the— oh, fuck. On the fullness in his bladder.

Sherlock shifts his hips as best he can against the carpet. The cramping is better, now that he's no longer sitting, but a very long way from gone, and he knows he isn't going to be able to hold himself for long.

But— Christ. He's going to piss himself. John's words seem to be filtering into his brain on a time delay. He's going to piss himself on the floor of his own bloody bedroom, and John is going to watch him do it.

Even the thought of releasing sends another shuddering cramp through the muscles of his abdomen. His whole body feels locked tight against the urge to just let go, and still he fears he might be about to— to start leaking like some kind of—

"John," he manages to say, and John's hand is immediately back on his cock, stroking him back to hardness, which is both better and far, far worse.

Surely there's too much, too much to hold inside the thin barrier of his skin? His skin feels stretched tight against the too-hot rush of his blood, paper-thin, no defence at all against the way John is touching him. His insides have become a raw tangle of nerves, pleasure and pain jumbling together into one white-hot mass of formless sensation, spilling through all his secret places, building and building until he's sure it's going to overflow, just spill out like—

"Stop." This time John barely takes his hand away in time, leaving Sherlock's cock abandoned and twitching in the air, choking back a sound that edges perilously close to a sob.

John eases him through several more rounds. Sherlock endures as long as he can, fighting back the twin needs for release building at the base of his spine, but each round is shorter than the last. He twists his fingers in the carpet and gasps for breath, the hood overheated and clinging to his skin. He knows he's making strangled noises—some of them might even be words; a lot of them feel like _John_ —but he can't seem to stop himself. 

John just keeps touch him with hands that are simultaneously steady and maddening, murmuring praises and encouragements. His voice is grounding in a way that the feel of Sherlock's own body against the floor isn't. Could never be. He needs, and John is here; the rest is just detail.

Sherlock has just indicated that he's ready for another round of John's hand on his cock when he is surprised by the feel of a slick finger easing its way into his entrance.

He draws in a harsh breath, struggling to breathe against the sensation.

"I want you to release for me as soon as you can," John says, gently, and Sherlock just nods and nods and swallows around nothing and shifts his hips upward to try to get more when it's all too much already.

He didn't think he could be any more full, but the light brush of the pad of John's finger against his prostate has him seeing stars; the hand that wraps around the base of his cock and pulls nearly undoes him then and there. A few dozen quick strokes and some light pressure from John's finger and then he _is_ there, his release pouring hot and sudden over his own stomach, legs fighting to straighten against the straps still locking his thighs and calves together.

John withdraws his finger while stroking Sherlock to a completion that seems to go on forever, wave after wave of sensation, until all the shuddering dies from his limbs.

"You're not done yet," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He has one hand still wrapped around Sherlock's softening cock; he sets the other against Sherlock's abdomen, right above his overfull bladder, and applies inexorable downward pressure. 

Oh, _fuck_.

There's a moment of initial resistance while all the blood in Sherlock's body redistributes itself, flooding upward in a hot flush of shame to suffuse his chest and throat. Then Sherlock is pouring out over his own stomach, his stream hitting his skin with an impossible heat, wet and filthy and wrong. It feels a bit like coming, a bit more like his penis is trying to invert itself from the base up, and Sherlock can't do anything about the sound he makes. He's trapped yet again; powerless to either stop it or move out of the way, his body interprets the sensation as one of pleasure. He finds himself arching up into it, fingers clutching desperately at the carpet as he's finally, fully, wrung dry.

 

****

 

"I'm not sure that was quite the exercise in dissuasion I meant it to be," John tells him, much later, once they've cleaned up the mess and Sherlock has had a chance to recover, dozing through John's ministrations. "I mean, I think you rather enjoyed it, in the end."

Sherlock turns his head on the pillow to look fully into John's eyes. "One of the most surefire ways to instil a memory is to associate it with a significant event, and I can assure you that _that_ —" he waves a hand at the wall, where the spreader bar is still hanging above a freshly-cleaned patch of carpet—"was quite memorable indeed."

John quirks his mouth into a smile. "You really shouldn't have, er, held it so long. I wasn't kidding about it being bad for you."

Sherlock allows himself a small smile in return. "Maybe. But that's why I keep you around." He leans forward to place a kiss on John's forehead. "And keeping you nearby was rather the point, wasn't it?" Sherlock leans his head into the crook of John's shoulder, inhaling deeply to take in the scent of John's skin. "So you needn't worry yourself. I think your lesson stuck after all."

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the practices here (leaving someone alone while hooded, leaving someone's arms suspended for such an extended period, and the one John takes particular objection to) fall only dubiously under the umbrella of "safe, sane, consensual." Let's just say John was confident he'd be able to manage any trouble that might arise.


End file.
